Act I - Act I, Scene 2
Scene II. The same. An Apartment of Prince Henry's.
[Enter Prince Henry and Falstaff.]
Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?
Thou art so fat-witted, with drinking of old sack, and
unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches
after noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which
thou wouldst truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the
time of the day? unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes
capons, and the blessed Sun himself a fair hot wench in
flame-coloured taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be
so superfluous to demand the time of the day.
Indeed, you come near me now, Hal; for we that take purses go
by the Moon and the seven stars, and not by Phoebus,--he, that
wandering knight so fair. And I pr'ythee, sweet wag, when thou
art king,--as, God save thy Grace--Majesty I should say, for
thou wilt have none,--
No, by my troth; not so much as will serve to be prologue
to an egg and butter.
Well, how then? come, roundly, roundly.
Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not us that
are squires of the night's body be called thieves of the day's
beauty: let us be Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade,
minions of the Moon; and let men say we be men of good
government, being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and
chaste mistress the Moon, under whose countenance we steal.
Thou say'st well, and it holds well too; for the fortune of
us that are the Moon's men doth ebb and flow like the sea,
being governed, as the sea is, by the Moon. As, for proof, now: A
purse of gold most resolutely snatch'd on Monday night, and most
dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with swearing Lay by,
and spent with crying Bring in; now ill as low an ebb as the foot
of the ladder, and by-and-by in as high a flow as the ridge of the
By the Lord, thou say'st true, lad. And is not my hostess of the
tavern a most sweet wench?
As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle. And is not a
buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?
How now, how now, mad wag! what, in thy quips and thy
quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin?
Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess of the tavern?
Well, thou hast call'd her to a reckoning many a time and oft.
Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part?
No; I'll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there.
Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch;
and where it would not, I have used my credit.
Yea, and so used it, that, were it not here apparent that
thou art heir-apparent--But I pr'ythee, sweet wag, shall there be
gallows standing in England when thou art king? and
resolution thus fobb'd as it is with the rusty curb of old father
antic the law? Do not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief.
No; thou shalt.
Shall I? O rare! By the Lord, I'll be a brave judge.
Thou judgest false already: I mean, thou shalt have the
hanging of the thieves, and so become a rare hangman.
Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps with my humour;
as well as waiting in the Court, I can tell you.
For obtaining of suits?
Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the hangman hath no
lean wardrobe. 'Sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib-cat or a
Or an old lion, or a lover's lute.
Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.
What say'st thou to a hare, or the melancholy of Moor-ditch?
Thou hast the most unsavoury similes, and art, indeed, the
most comparative, rascalliest, sweet young prince,--But, Hal, I
pr'ythee trouble me no more with vanity. I would to God thou and
I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought. An old
lord of the Council rated me the other day in the street about you,
sir,--but I mark'd him not; and yet he talk'd very wisely,--but I
regarded him not; and yet he talk'd wisely, and in the street too.
Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man
O, thou hast damnable iteration, and art, indeed, able to corrupt
Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal; God forgive thee for it!
Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am I, if a man
should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must
give over this life, and I will give it over; by the Lord, an I do
not, I am a villain: I'll be damn'd for never a king's son in
Where shall we take a purse to-morrow, Jack?
Zounds, where thou wilt, lad; I'll make one: an I do not, call
me villain, and baffle me.
I see a good amendment of life in thee,--from praying to
Why, Hal, 'tis my vocation, Hal; 'tis no sin for a man to labour
in his vocation.
--Pointz!--Now shall we know if Gadshill have set a match. O, if
men were to be saved by merit, what hole in Hell were hot enough
for him? This is the most omnipotent villain that ever cried
Stand! to a true man.
Good morrow, Ned.
Good morrow, sweet Hal.--What says Monsieur Remorse? what
says Sir John Sack-and-sugar? Jack, how agrees the Devil and
thee about thy soul, that thou soldest him on Good-Friday last
for a cup of Madeira and a cold capon's leg?
Sir John stands to his word,--the Devil shall have his bargain;
for he was never yet a breaker of proverbs,--he will give the
Devil his due.
Then art thou damn'd for keeping thy word with the Devil.
Else he had been damn'd for cozening the Devil.
But, my lads, my lads, to-morrow morning, by four o'clock,
early at Gads-hill! there are pilgrims gong to Canterbury
with rich offerings, and traders riding to London with fat
purses: I have visards for you all; you have horses for
yourselves: Gadshill lies to-night in Rochester: I have bespoke
supper to-morrow night in Eastcheap: we may do it as secure as
sleep. If you will go, I will stuff your purses full of crowns;
if you will not, tarry at home and be hang'd.
Hear ye, Yedward; if I tarry at home and go not, I'll hang you
You will, chops?
Hal, wilt thou make one?
Who, I rob? I a thief? not I, by my faith.
There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee,
nor thou camest not of the blood royal, if thou darest not stand
for ten shillings.
Well, then, once in my days I'll be a madcap.
Why, that's well said.
Well, come what will, I'll tarry at home.
By the Lord, I'll be a traitor, then, when thou art king.
I care not.
Sir John, I pr'ythee, leave the Prince and me alone: I will
lay him down such reasons for this adventure, that he shall go.
Well, God give thee the spirit of persuasion, and him the ears
of profiting, that what thou speakest may move, and what he
hears may be believed, that the true Prince may, for recreation-
sake, prove a false thief; for the poor abuses of the time want
countenance. Farewell; you shall find me in Eastcheap.
Farewell, thou latter Spring! farewell, All-hallown Summer!
Now, my good sweet honey-lord, ride with us to-morrow: I
have a jest to execute that I cannot manage alone. Falstaff,
Bardolph, Peto, and Gadshill, shall rob those men that we have
already waylaid: yourself and I will not be there; and when they
have the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut this head off
from my shoulders.
But how shall we part with them in setting forth?
Why, we will set forth before or after them, and appoint them
a place of meeting, wherein it is at our pleasure to fail; and
then will they adventure upon the exploit themselves; which they
shall have no sooner achieved but we'll set upon them.
Ay, but 'tis like that they will know us by our horses, by our
habits, and by every other appointment, to be ourselves.
Tut! our horses they shall not see,--I'll tie them in the wood;
our visards we will change, after we leave them; and, sirrah, I
have cases of buckram for the nonce, to immask our noted
But I doubt they will be too hard for us.
Well, for two of them, I know them to be as true-bred
cowards as ever turn'd back; and for the third, if he fight
longer than he sees reason, I'll forswear arms. The virtue of
this jest will be, the incomprehensible lies that this same fat
rogue will tell us when we meet at supper: how thirty, at least,
he fought with; what wards, what blows, what extremities he
endured; and in the reproof of this lies the jest.
Well, I'll go with thee: provide us all things necessary and
meet me to-night in Eastcheap; there I'll sup. Farewell.
Farewell, my lord.
I know you all, and will awhile uphold
The unyok'd humour of your idleness:
Yet herein will I imitate the Sun,
Who doth permit the base contagious clouds
To smother-up his beauty from the world,
That, when he please again to be himself,
Being wanted, he may be more wonder'd at,
By breaking through the foul and ugly mists
Of vapours that did seem to strangle him.
If all the year were playing holidays,
To sport would be as tedious as to work;
But, when they seldom come, they wish'd-for come,
And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.
So, when this loose behaviour I throw off,
And pay the debt I never promised,
By how much better than my word I am,
By so much shall I falsify men's hopes;
And, like bright metal on a sullen ground,
My reformation, glittering o'er my fault,
Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes
Than that which hath no foil to set it off.
I'll so offend, to make offence a skill;
Redeeming time, when men think least I will.